Red Rose of England
by mklnay
Summary: To all, she was the ruler of England, the Virgin Queen, Good Queen Bess. To Arthur, though, she was simply Bess. Oneshot. Arthur/Elizabeth I.


**Red Rose of England  
by Mklnay  
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To her loyal subjects, she was Queen Elizabeth the First, herald of the Golden Age of the British Empire. To her advisors, she was the shrewd and careful monarch. To her soldiers, a brilliant tactician and spirited commander. But to all, she was the ruler of England, the Virgin Queen, Good Queen Bess.

To Arthur, though, she was simply Bess. Dear, beloved, beautiful Bess without any of the titles others attached to her. He had known her as a little red-haired child at the knee of her father, Henry, and even then something in him had known her; recognised her. She was his ray of hope and his lifeline. She lifted his country out of the blood-soaked squalor her own half-sister had dragged it through, and turned England into the greatest Empire the world had ever seen.

But ultimately, she _cared_. And he loved her for it.

_England_ loved her for it.

He stayed with her for years and years and years. He watched her turn away suitor after suitor, from Phillip II to Henri of Anjou, and always she cited that she would have no one as her husband, because she was married to her country. He waited for her to relax her façade of 'immovable Queen', when the advisors had all left, and when they were the only ones who remained.

Bess and Arthur.

She was not Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I, then. Nor was he Lord Arthur Kirkland, he of indeterminate lineage and land, but whose presence was accepted as a staple of court life for generations. They were just two people who could enjoy each other's company. A country and his wife.

Always, always, Arthur watched and waited.

And over time, he found things about her that struck him, made her seem beautiful when in reality she could only be called handsome. Her laughter, like a cathedral bell; resonant and confident and all the sweeter to the ear for its rarity. Her expressive gray eyes, that could snap like silver fire or twinkle with disguised mirth, expressions flashing through them like quicksilver. Her radiant skin, splattered with pale gold freckles. And above all, her crowning glory, her flame-coloured hair upon which the symbol of her office rested.

He watched her, and he loved her all the while.

But she was mortal, and he was not. Years passed like the slipping of sand grains through his fingers; unstoppable no matter how tightly he closed his fists. Suddenly, his radiant young queen was old and weary and sick, and Arthur could do nothing but sit back and watch- always, always only watching- and try to steel his aching heart for the inevitable.

Yet still, he loved her. Because she was still Bess; his Bess. No matter that her flaming hair had faded to silver, or that her porcelain skin was wrinkled with age. The spirit was still there, shining behind quicksilver eyes that had clouded over as the years flew by. And when the time eventually came for Death to claim her, he was there by her beside, gripping her withered hand tight.

Eyes dry.

Arthur-_ England-_ sat there as his love, his Queen, slipped away. Sat there until her frail body breathed no more and her fragile hand was cold in his.

He did not cry. He would be strong for her as she had always been strong for him. Her country.

Her husband.

Yet even after so many years had passed and all that remained of his beloved Bess were dry histories and coldly diffident artifacts, Arthur would still turn his head at a flash of fiery red hair, or the ringing of clear, bell-like laughter. He would continue to do this even after his yearning soul had ceased expecting to see her, to hear her, to feel her again. Arthur Kirkland still turned to look, because there would always be that special, secret place in his age-old heart that was reserved for a red-headed, radiant girl-Queen named Bess.

On a chain around his neck, he carried an old, ornate golden signet ring that she had gifted him with, once upon a time. He had carried it over his heart through wars and famine and plague, through sorrow and anger and joy. He had carried it for nearly five hundred years, and he would take it with him to his own deathbed, should England ever fall.

Why?

Because she had been his Queen in every sense of the word- Queen of his land, his people, his heart- as well as his wife, his love. Because she was still and always would be _His_ Bess.

_Fin.  
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_**Author's Notes:** Arthur and his Good Queen Bess. Such a bittersweet tale. x3 Hope you enjoyed the read!

Cheers~  
Mklnay


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